


Coffee grounds can't buy help

by Straight_for_destiel



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Clayton comes for Ian, Ian is quiet, M/M, Mickey is also sad, Sometime in season five, This is Bad, sorry - Freeform, this is pretty sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-14 12:39:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3410951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Straight_for_destiel/pseuds/Straight_for_destiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PROMPT: Anonymous asked: Yo, but imagine Lip going to Clayton's house and telling him about Ian being bipolar and Clayton being the good person he is, wants to take Ian with him because Ian's still a minor and he's his dad and all that stuff. Can someone make that happen? Prompt I guess?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coffee grounds can't buy help

**Author's Note:**

> I suck at this, I'm sorry. I'm trying to ease myself into writing fanfiction before I go back into my multi-chapter.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK. 

As a string of curses ring through his brain, he watches Ian banging his head against the wall, holding his legs to his chest. Fucking Lip. 

Mickey drags a hand through his hair, weeding them through the tangles. He grimaces from the grease that restricts him. 

The tears from Ian keep flowing, refracting the freckles Mickey tries memorizing while he can. What gives Lip the right? First, he left Ian for bullshit dreams. Then, he makes Mickey think he's actually doing something right. Now, he's marching in, spouting shit about the Northside and rich baby daddies. 

“Ian, please.” Lip is crouched down, facing Ian. He's placing his hand on his shoulder and trying to make soothing sounds. Mickey can't help but snort because Ian's not a rabid dog.

He's not.

“Clayton's able to help-” he begins.

Mickey slams his hand against the table, standing up. “You said I could help.”

Lip turns to the man with black bags under his eyes and sweat soaking his shirt. “I said you did more than most people would.” He takes a breath, looking over the pleading, tired eyes. “You did good. We did good.”

“You did shit,” Mickey interrupts. 

He takes another drag of air. “We did good,” he repeats. “Mickey.” He pauses, waiting for him to acknowledge him. With a sigh, he say, “Mickey,” coming out softer than he thought he could toward the thug. Though hesitant, Mickey removes his hand from his mouth, raising his eyes to meet Lip's. “Look around. We're living in a shit hole. Ian's finally agreeing to take his medication. How can we help him if we can't even afford them for him?”

“We have the suitcases. Belts, shoes, boots, pills, GOD DAMN FUCKING DILDOS!” Mickey yells, losing air from his lungs. He lowers his head before raising it again to stare at the one that got out of the Southside. “We could...” he can't get the word out. Why can't he just get the words out? Why can't he just look Lip in the eyes without losing his nerve and looking away? 

“That won't buy him help, Mick,” Lip starts, raising.

“You don't get to call him that,” Ian releases through a tight throat. 

Mickey almost loses it at that. He lowers, rubbing Ian's knee. When all Ian does is close into himself further, he presses a kiss the the clothed joint, resting his forehead on his hand.

Lip walks over, placing a hand on Mickey's shoulder. He doesn't look up.

“We need to think about other options.” 

Mickey looks at the redhead falling apart piece by piece. “Ian?” He barely looks up. “You know that I... fuck.” He rests his cheek back on his hand, giving him full view of the man he can't make words out to, once again.

“I know.” Mickey breaks, looking at the chapped lips that just uttered the words he still has nightmares about, though this is the first time Ian releases the words through something other than his eyes and Mickey can't handle it.

He grabs Ian's face, gracing his thumb across his features. “I love you,” he states with conviction, resting his forehead against the clammy skin above Ian's brows.

“I know,” Ian mutters, once again.

Tears stream down his face more frequent and all Mickey can do is spread them around, wetting Ian's lips with his thumb before they bleed and hold back the tears that settle on his waterline.

“He'll be here at five,” Lip practically whispers, heading up the stairs.

Mickey and Ian stay seated by the banister of the Gallagher house, Mickey breaking apart, though attempting to hide it; Ian is already a mess at his feet.

A few hours pass without them moving before the back door is kicked open, a blonde with thinning hair strutting through with bags of groceries. Mickey barely registers her name. 

“Oh, Ian, honey, can you get the bag from the porch?” She drops what she has onto the counter, shocked for a second as she depicts the situation in front of her. “Oh, you must be Ian's...” she trails off. Recognition dawns on her face. She turns back, wiping her hands on her denim skirt. “You two seem busy. I'll just have Chucky get them,” she says through a strange smile. She summons a stumpy kid who acts like the world depends on him getting those groceries.

Mickey looks away from her, falling next to Ian, resting his head on his chest. He pulls out his phone. “4:43,” he mutters into Ian's shirt. It's silent for a moment before he hears the redhead swallow.

Soon, Lip is rushing down the stairs with a couple bags. Ian glares at him, though his brother seems to ignore him. 

“Will it help?” The small sound of Mickey's voice is strained.

Lip takes a minute before answering, “He's a good man. We're still kids, Mickey.” He tries meeting his eyes, but the brunette just looks away. “You can still see him. It's not the psych ward. It may not be better, but it may help.”

Lip's voice takes on the same soft tone that Mickey doesn't remember. 

“Who's a good man? I might want to meet him,” the blonde jokes.

“You're uncle,” Lip quips, keeping his eyes on the couple.

The woman drowns into the background after the remark. Lip is concerned for Mickey and Mickey can only wonder why the hell he's not being concerned about the only one that truly matters. 

“Things might never change,” Lip whispers. Mickey stays silent, as well as Ian, who hides his face deeper into his knees. 

“Thanks for the encouragement.” That's all Mickey makes out before he lets the tears fall without another sound. 

Lip sighs and they wait there while the inevitable comes to be. The knock.

Mickey and Ian make no move to stand up and greet the older man, so Lip does it for them.

As soon as the door is opened, Mickey hears a deep voice. Footsteps make their way into the living room. Mickey only sees khakis and a pair of shoes he recognizes from the shoe pile Ian made. He follows his gaze to the mans clean pressed shirt. He doesn't look as rich as he pictures. He looks more like the middle aged white men who try to look rich and middle class at the same time, like they're one of you, but they're still better.

His eyes find a pale face with faint freckles along a strong jaw line. He looks back toward Ian, noticing the similarities. When he finds himself looking back at the tall, redheaded man that stands before them, geared with the bags of the man he loves, he almost fully breaks, but manages to hide the noises in Ian's hoodie. 

“Come on, Ian.” Lip kneels down, pushing the hair out of Ian's face. Ian takes his first glance at his brother's eyes in months. With that, he rises to his feet, Mickey rising, as well. They never disconnect. 

“Who are you?” the man Mickey assumes to be Clayton asks.

“I'm his boyfriend,” Mickey croaks out, a slight guard in his voice.

A small second of shock passes his face, but it dissipates. He stays silent, bringing the bags out to his car.

Mickey makes his way down the stairs, holding Ian up while trying to stay up himself. Usually, they don't get goodbyes. The farewell at the ward may have been the only proper one, yet.

Clayton gets in the car, an irritated woman with a black bob sitting shotgun. 

“You'll be okay,” he whispers in Ian's ear. 

“I'm sorry,” Ian bleeds from his mouth with such regret.

“Ian,” Mickey groans. The words are on the tip of his tongue, 'you don't have anything to apologize for,' but he can't, because how can running off with your your boyfriend's son be considered something small? 

He kisses the redhead's cheek, watching his face twitch. He almost feels the stab in the chest Ian gets from that. Turning his face by the chin, he pecks his lips. He pulls back, nuzzling his head in the neck of the taller man. 

Ian looks around, taking in the man crying into his skin, Sammy in the doorway with her son, his brother, Lip, watching him with a crease in his eyebrows, the man he never truly met waiting in the car with his furious, impatient wife, the soccer and private school stickers that dress the bumper, and finally the empty street that should be filled with siblings, but isn't due to them giving early goodbyes. He starts to feel as if they've all given up on him. Fiona is at the cafe, Debbie is hopefully working out and not taking steroids, and Carl is working the street corners in khakis and a polo, selling to assholes with a wad of cash from their parents' bank account. 

He kisses Mickey's head, nodding at Lip and making his way to the car. Mickey holds his left hand with both of his, head still on his shoulder as they walk. Lips hugs his brother for a good 6 seconds before patting his back and letting go. 

Ian releases himself from the crying man. “I love you, too,” he murmurs. Mickey watches him through blood shot eyes. They hug one last time, burying noses into crooks and hands dragging down heads. 

The automatic door is closing when Mickey lets go of Ian's hand.

When he can no longer decipher red hair through the tinted windows of the silver mini van, Mickey collapses onto the side walk and retracts his wobbling knees to his chest. The breeze brushes against his wet cheeks, doing nothing to help whiten his eyes.

A hand is placed on his back. He can't stop it. He loses it.

He's gone.

**Author's Note:**

> Criticism, kudos, and comments welcome. Tumblr: http://shamelessinteraction.tumblr.com/ Prompt me, man.


End file.
